


The Duck Quacks at Christmas

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Don’t copy to another site, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 22:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17130305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: As Christmas looms, an unexpected gift appears on Greg's desk, which doesn't lead to the happy outcome he anticipates.  Now, it's on Mycroft to make amends and he does it the only way he knows how... grandly and shrouded in mystery...





	The Duck Quacks at Christmas

Fucking Christmas.  Not that it was a terrible holiday, per se, and not for the usual litany of reasons set out by the cynical who mostly whinged about over-commercialization and the like because they were a bit of a bastard and got upset watching good-hearted people having a nice time or sharing a coffee with a friend and they, themselves, were too bastardy to enjoy even a speck of that fun and goodwill.

Christmas was a fucker because it was a time when stupid, miserable, flippy-flappy things happened, and it was up to the police to sort it out.  And, petty as it might seem, even the most dedicated members of the police service would prefer not to manage angry drunks and berks who thought putting sex toys on publicly-displayed Christmas trees was simply hilarious.  Where did they even find mini-dildos?  Did some company make them especially for people who liked their holiday décor a touch on the tawdry side?  And, more importantly, who thought _his_ team were the perfect people to manage that particular situation?  Admittedly, it _was_ the centerpiece of the holiday decorating scheme of the PM’s Christmas party for adoring lackeys and people who must be wined and dined for government to function properly, which meant the PM getting what they wanted regardless of good judgement or semblance of human decency, but it was _not_ a major crime and… fuck Christmas.

Given the particular train of his thoughts, it wasn’t surprising when Greg opened his office door and saw the elegantly-wrapped package on his desk, he made a rude gesture at it rather than doing a clapping-hand, giddy-jump sort of dance one might expect for someone who rarely saw a gift voucher for a coffee shop tossed on his desk at the holidays, let alone something wrapped in a manner that would be acceptable for a spot under Scrooge’s own tree, because you know that even his humbuggery would demand that if he had a tree, what went under it better fucking well look good or there’d be  hell to pay.

      “Ok… who have I pissed off and how much of a joke is this going to be?”

Checking for a card or tag first, Greg then did the customary shake-and-listen maneuver, only to be thwarted by either a box filled with nothing or a box filled with something that was properly packaged so the contents didn’t shift during takeoff or landing.  Given Santa hadn’t gifted him with X-ray vision for Christmas, something he’d been asking for since he was a lad and saw an advert in one of those boy’s magazines for special goggles designed to give you super powers, only to suffer eternal disappointment when it proved to be another grand lie in a life filled with grand lies offered up and served hot by the advertising industry, it was time to carefully deconstruct the piece of modern art on his desk and lift the lid, since there _was_ a lid, this being a proper gift box and not something you rescued from the rubbish because you forgot it was Aunt Violet’s birthday and had to put something in the post today or you’d never hear the end of it until the day she died which she’d put off as long as possible specifically to make your suffering worth the insult she received from your shitty gift-wrapping philosophy.

      “That’s… that’s unusual.”

He’d seen these sorts of things, but always suspected they were examples of things you saw but didn’t actual exist, because they were somehow urban myths that self-perpetuated until everybody _believed_ they existed and everybody’s cousin’s sister’s husband’s co-worker had one but not one single person you personally knew had ever seen one in real-life, rather as with Bigfoot or an honest politician.

In the box were two knitted items, one a handsome green tweed and the other a solid charcoal gray that was faintly mottled with black and lighter gray so it gave the yarn just the right bit of visual interest without detracting from the, for lack of a better word, masculine appearance of the piece.  And this one, had two black buttons, properly formed from a black, matte-finished material that kept it grounded in ‘this is for mature men who drink good scotch and love the smell of old books and older wood when they sit for a moment to relax with a cup of something hot,’ which was the purpose of both of these objects.  The green one being a sleeve for a cup of coffee or tea you bought while out and about and the other for proper mug when you were blessed to sit a moment at home or work and enjoy a good cuppa and the newspaper.  For someone who often had to let their beloved hot beverage sit unattended while he dealt with this or that crisis, something to provide even a few additional minutes of acceptable warm-enough-to-drink-and-not-grimace temperature was… nice.  Was there a card?

Why yes, there was.  Of a sort, because notes qualified as cards by the broadest of applied definitions:

_Dear Detective Inspector,_

_I hope you enjoy your small tokens of my regard and allow me to say that ‘regard’ is certainly the proper sentiment, since both your professional competence and personal character are of the highest order.  I have often hoped to know you better, in the personal sense, as I have not been able fully to ignore that our interactions, few and brief though they are, seem to inspire in me a rare spark of hope that we might enjoy something other than a nodding acquaintance and develop a more rewarding relationship that we both appreciate and cherish.  If you are free, I would invite you to join me for a drink at the address below, in the area of eight o’clock.  Please feel no obligation to attend if what I have described is not of interest to you but, given I am not without my own observational talents, I suspect that you will find my offer both intriguing and worth pursuing, now the opportunity presents itself in such an open and forthright manner._

_Happy Christmas,_

The signature at the bottom left no doubt who was the author of this note, as if the formal and business-like tone of the writing wasn’t definitive, in and of itself.  Mycroft Holmes was asking him out for a drink.  Bought him a thoughtful gift and was asking him out for a drink with an eye towards… more.  And not just more drinks, either!  It was a little couched in the sort of verbiage you found in set of loan papers, but Mycroft seemed to believe they might have something between them.  A little frisson of energy, perhaps, when they caught sight of each other and let their eyes linger for more than a brief moment.  Maybe even a few, or more than a few, filthy fantasies, too, after one of those catching-sight events.  Ok, that last bit was just him, probably.  Or, maybe not.  Why couldn’t that cool, sophisticated man have scorchingly-filthy fantasies like any regular person?  That was the best part about being a regular person!  Well, maybe not the best, but it was a very close second…

Checking his watch, Greg swore slightly under his breath, then quickly turned and dashed towards the elevator, happy that he still had on his coat and scarf, so he wasn’t wasting precious seconds fumbling with outerwear.  He had one stop to make before he got to the pub and he was going to be hard-pressed to do that without a treacherous overcoat putting a dagger in his back and giving his Christmas another layer of very unwanted fuckery.

__________

      “Mr. Holmes!”

Mycroft turned his head at the sound of the voice and Greg felt his smile falter slightly since the other face wasn’t sporting a smile, at all.

      “Ah, Detective Inspector.  How enormous shall be my headache when I inquire as to what my brother has done this evening?”

Now, Greg’s smile was faltering faster because there wasn’t a hint of anything in Mycroft’s voice that said he was setting up a ‘Gotcha!’ moment.

      “Ummmm… I have no idea.  I haven’t spoken to Sherlock since yesterday and that was only because he was in the morgue when I popped in to check with Molly about a case that got bumped up the priority list.”

      “Then why did you phone and ask that I meet you here?”

      “Uhhhhh…. I didn’t.”

      “There was a message on my desk which indicates that you did.”

      “I have no idea what that’s all about, but I didn’t phone you.  I’m here, actually, because of _your_ note.”

      “What note?”

      “The one you put in my gift.”

      “Gift?  Detective inspector, are you well?”

      “There was a gift on my desk, nicely wrapped, and inside was a very thoughtful set of cup warmer thingies and a note.  From you.  Asking to meet here.”

      “First, you are not on my list of holiday gift recipients.  Second, I do not bestow… thingies… for any reason.  Third, and more importantly, I did _not_ ask for this meeting.  I would appreciate a sensible explanation for this matter and not a farcical story spun for some reason I truly have no interest in knowing when my evening is already well and truly punctured.”

Mycroft had been profoundly on shaky ground when he realized that his presence had not been requested by the DI, but the shakiness grew to earthquake proportions when he saw the clear signs of disappointment, embarrassment… and hurt… rise in Greg’s eyes because of his words, which he now realized were far harsher and said infinitely more sharply than he’d intended.  Mostly to hide his _own_ embarrassment at being the butt of some terrible prank, which had drawn in the Detective Inspector as collateral damage.

      “Oh.  I see…”

      “Detective Inspector, allow me to…”

      “I’m sorry, sir.  I should have realized it was some form of joke because… well, for what you said there and… ok, time to get on with things, right?  I’m sure you have more important things to do with your time and this really was pretty stupid on the part of whoever thought this would be a laugh.  And on mine for thinking… Have a good evening, Mr. Holmes.  Oh, and a happy Christmas, as well.”

Before Mycroft could stop him, and he truly did want to, if only to apologize for being horrid to someone who surely did not deserve his foul temper, Greg had spun and started walking away quickly down the quiet street.  If he hadn’t been paying attention, even Mycroft might have missed the very slight motion, mostly hidden by the man’s coat, that very much looked like something being tossed in a convenient rubbish bin.  Once Greg was out of sight, Mycroft strode over to investigate.

He couldn’t be completely certain the cuboid, white box with a smiley face drawn on the top was what had been discarded, but his certainty was great enough that Mycroft plucked it off the top of the various coffee cups and food bags and looked inside to find… a duck.  A cheap, plastic duck that eschewed its traditional yellow for red, in keeping with the horns and decidedly devilish grin, which was a remarkable feat for creature sporting a bill rather than a mouth.  And, there was note:

_Happy Christmas!_

_So glad you wanted to meet tonight since I’ve thought for awhile, like you, that we should get to know each better.  Here’s something ridiculous and loony to brighten your holiday.  I love these silly things, probably from playing too much hook-a-duck when I was a boy, but they’re fun and this one reminds me of a certain someone who bedevils the both of us and, if you want to, you can flick it off your desk when he’s off his nut and you get the call to come and drag his bony arse home from police custody._

_Looking forward to tonight very much!_

The rather illegible scribble at the bottom of the note was a familiar one and Mycroft sighed heavily, experiencing a cold, thick, lumpy stew of guilt sloshing uncomfortably in his stomach.  He had behaved appallingly and the various excuses for it - personal embarrassment, anger at being played for a fool, his typical anxiety being in the presence of the stunning and genuinely fascinating Detective Inspector - were completely inadequate to provide him reason for his conduct.  The most depressing element of it all was that he truly _did_ want the chance to better come to know the man, not in his professional capacity, but one that was personal.  He had tried, countless times, to muster the courage simply to speak to him in a collegial fashion, but not a word had ever made it past his lips, because… he was worse than a timid schoolboy seeking to converse with the handsome, vibrant youth who sat next to him in history class and prevented him paying attention to anything the teacher might have to say.

And, now, he had offered not friendship, but insult.  Not the possibility of a warmth between them, but a glacier of bleak ice that would likely never thaw.  And not a bit of that did the Detective Inspector deserve.  On his part, it was an astonishing loss of honor, but that was the very least of his concerns.  The issue was he had hurt someone who was good, kind, dedicated… and he had no idea what to do about it.

There might, though, be someone who _did_ and how fortunate it was he knew where to find them at this precise moment…

__________

Lady Smallwood wasn’t exactly shocked to see Mycroft Holmes standing at her door, because she had invited him, as per tradition, to her yearly holiday gathering but, given he never before had accepted, she did feel _some_ surprise, until it was replaced by another sensation, this one more of resignation that her gathering would now be minus its hostess since there was no reason Mycroft would be here unless a situation had arisen that required the personal attention of them both, Christmas and parties be damned.

      “Alright, what’s happened?”

      “I… may I come in?”

The needle veered slightly back from resignation to the edge of the shock zone, but she nodded and stepped aside to allow Mycroft to enter her cheerily-decorated foyer.

      “Mycroft, is everything alright?”

      “No.  Might you have a moment to… talk?”

Needle now so far into the shock zone that it was clanging against the little peg that prevented it from flying fully off the scale.

      “Of course.  Let’s… the kitchen.  Cup of tea?”

Mycroft’s relieved nod was something that made Lady Smallwood begin adding worry to her shock, because it was of the weighty, mournful sort that usually preceded a discussion about some unhappy occurrence in one’s life.

      “There… the kettle’s going and do have a few nibbles from those trays.  I always over-plan for parties, but it leaves me with extra, so I don’t have to cook or have takeaway for a few days, which is always a blessing.  So… what can I do for you, Mycroft.  I have to say, you have me a bit concerned.”

Mycroft shrugged, but more to give himself a physical push to start talking than to pretend ignorance and out came his story, succinct, yet detailed as befitting the storyteller.  When the tea was set on the table in front of him, he found that he needed a sip more to wet his word-dry mouth than for the comfort of its heat and flavor.

      “Oh.  Well, that’s not what I was expecting, I admit, but… and I say this with the perspective of someone who has known you for a _long_ time… you are a complete bellend.”

Mycroft only just prevented tea spraying across the trays of _hors d’oeuvres,_ but some few drops did sneak into his sinuses, which added another layer of evidence that the universe hated him with an unbridled passion.

      “That… that is rather harsh.”

      “Actually, I was going to say something worse, but you’re a bit genteel to hear it and I’d rather not make you cry at Christmas.  Oh, Mycroft… that was a dreadful thing to do, even for you.”

      “I am aware of that.  I simply…”

      “You got upset and flustered and did something horrid because that’s much easier for you and would let you hide behind a bush, which wouldn’t be the case if you simply were honest, both about not being involved in whatever was going on, but also that you’d love nothing more than to spend some time with the delightful Detective Inspector.”

      “I have never given a single mote of thought to spending time with Gr… the Detective Inspector and…”

      “That’s true.  You’ve given _many_ motes of thought to that very thing and if I have to hear you, one more time, choke back saying his name because that’s how you actually think of him and not by his job title, I’m going to scream.  There’s nothing wrong with being interested in someone, you bloody idiot!  Especially not someone who is a decent, mature, respectable person, who doesn’t seem stuffy or have a big stick up his arse like most of the people we get to meet in our miserable line of work.”

      “The Detective Inspector is… he has far more options, better and more agreeable options, for friendship or any other manner of personal involvement than with someone who, by coincidence, is _very_ well described as being stuffy and having a big stick up his arse.”

That was a piece of honesty Lady Smallwood hadn’t expected, but good for Mycroft being self-aware.  Though, he wasn’t entirely correct on either point.

      “You _are_ stuffy, but only with the people who don’t know you or you don’t like.  And that enormous stick, frankly, is mostly there to drag out and shake at people if they get too close to you.”

      “That is a revolting image.”

      “I’ve had a few glasses of wine.  In any case… you _can_ be a real boy, Pinocchio, when you want to be, and I think Mr. Lestrade would appreciate that boy if he only had the chance to meet him.  Of course, now, I have no idea why he’d give you the chance, but I’ve also never known you to face a problem and not think of a way to solve it.”

      “I doubt he would even agree to hear my apology.”

      “Since he’s not peevish and sour, I suspect you’re wrong, but I also know you’d dissolve into an unappetizing gravy if you simply presented yourself at his door to make amends.  He does deserve something, though, Mycroft.  Something clear and without artifice.  And, I also think he deserves to know that he’s not alone in his thinking.  You _were_ horrible, but I wouldn’t doubt that what’s making him feel absolutely devastated right now is that he let you know he wanted to be closer to you and thinks you don’t even approach feeling the same way.  He’s humiliated, in addition to being insulted, and… go and fix this.  You can, I have faith you can, but do it quickly.  Don’t let the poor man live with that in his head.”

Mycroft scowled, but it was fully directed at himself because he knew Lady Smallwood was right.  Only the worst sort of villain would leave this unaddressed.  There were countless number who _did_ believe him the worst sort of villain, but that particular species of villain was also cowardly, and not even the most spiteful and petty of his enemies believed that of him.  The question, though, was how to accomplish the task without meeting the predicted gravy fate, which was not as fanciful as notion as one might expect, given his utter lack of experience with anything approaching… sentiment.

      “Very well.  I… I have no idea what I shall do, but I shall do something.”

      “Look on this as a puzzle, a problem, a situation… you’re good with those.  If you truly can’t think of an idea, we can both put our heads together and give it some thought.  You let me know either way, though, alright?”

Lady Smallwood easily recognized the flat smile on Mycroft’s lips and it was one that made her heart ache.  Mycroft was a lonely man, though he took great pains to hide that fact.  At this point, she wagered, he’d given upon that ever changing, and tonight’s gaffe was another data point on an already tragic graph.

      “Want to join the festivities for awhile?  There’s nobody here you actually despise.”

      “Good heavens, no.  But… thank you.  I believe I should spend my time, at present, ruminating on a particular and pressing personal matter.”

      “Then be off with you.”

With shooing motions encouraging him out of his chair, Mycroft checked that his scarf was ready to keep away the late-December chill and made his way to the door.

      “Well… thank you for your time.  I apologize for interrupting your party.”

      “You’re always welcome here, Mycroft, you know that.  Now, go and see what you can do to put some happy in both your and your Gregory’s Christmas.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but smiled softly before completely turning away to return to his waiting car.  As he walked, slightly-slumped shoulders speaking volumes about the weight on his mind, Lady Smallwood gave herself a mental kick and wondered when she’d ever made such an incredible blunder in tactics.  It had seemed such a simple plan, especially after she’d seen Mycroft’s face light up three days ago when the Detective Inspector phoned about another Sherlock-related matter.  The man was absolutely smitten, and every bit of evidence showed that DI Greg Lestrade felt the same.  She simply hadn’t counted on Mycroft being _this_ socially incapable.  He was utter balls at making friends, let alone starting a romance, that was true, but a juicy puzzle, combined with a cozy pub and the path already smoothed by clear knowledge that his own feelings were reciprocated… it should have worked!

Well, it obviously hadn’t and she’d give it until the day after tomorrow for things to be sorted out before personally apologizing to the Detective Inspector and explaining what had happened.  Her instincts said that Mycroft would act swiftly on this or not at all, so if he dd take action it would most certainly be tomorrow.  And she dearly hoped he would… two lonely men, attracted to each other but too scared to reach out to act on it.  She put absolutely no faith in the concept of Christmas miracles but hoped, this once and with all her heart, to be proved wrong…

__________

Greg knew he wouldn’t start his morning in a good mood, because he hadn’t fallen into bed in a good mood, hadn’t spent a mostly-sleepless night in a good mood, hadn’t showered in a good mood and his microwave picked today to die in a plume of smoke that set off his fire sensor and filled his flat with the stench of an electrical fire.

Now, he was having to listen to someone throwing pebbles at his window.  Normally, the kids in this area were well-behaved or, at least, so disinterested in anything but their own goings-on that the end result was the same and the various shops and residents were left blissfully alone from their shenanigans.  Today, though, it looked like Christmas was hellbent on sending him to the bottom of the ocean with an anchor around his legs, so those eerie deep-sea creatures could nibble on him and shit out his remains for the ocean worms or whatnot to feed on in the great marine circle of life.  Wonderful.

Finally tiring of the continuous tinks and plinks against the glass, Greg went to the window, preparing his lungs for a solid get-off-my-lawn old man’s tirade when he startled sharply at the brief sight of black clad… ninjas… speeding away from what appeared to be not only his building, but a small package that had been left on his window sill, helpfully affixed to the wood by a suction cup.

Slowly opening the window and peeking out even more slowly in case his team was out there to take snaps of the foolish old bastard thinking Father Christmas left him an early present, Greg finally decided it was safe to bring the small box inside and only suffered several hundred thousand pangs of angst remembering the _other_ mystery box he’d received recently, especially since the chances were high this was another in that particular line of sadistic misery.  Though… this one certainly wasn’t wrapped as nicely as the first.  Tidy, yes.  Crisp and precise.  But… this was done by a different hand.  An accomplice?  That was getting a bit complicated for a cruel Christmas prank…

Wishing he had a fingerprint kit in his flat or, failing that, a DNA swab, Greg pulled an end of the deep, burgundy bow and opened the lid once the ribbon had fallen away.

      “What the fuck…”

Inside was a duck.  Very much like the duck he’d stupidly thought he’d offer to Mycroft, but this one wasn’t a devil.  It was wearing a little chef’s hat and had a small whisk molded into its hand.  And there was a card.  Like a business card, though, as opposed to a folded one, which was odd.

_The unbeaten egg longs for the cheese._

What?  Then, there was a series of numbers beneath the cryptic message that… were those GPS coordinates?  Ok, this was weird.  Very weird.  Weird as in he might should open a case on this because nutcases _did_ stalk or harass police officers and it might start as a lark but could turn ugly quickly.  Or, he could be hoping to _make_ this something serious and important to cover for him being ridiculous and potentially sending a riot squad out on one of his mates who was being a bit of a prick, which was certainly possible since prickishness acknowledged no holidays, regardless of culture or religion.  But, none of his mates knew about his sad pining for Mycroft Holmes.  _Nobody_ knew about that.  Shit…

Making sure he had the card and his mobile, which was a handy police-issued model with extremely-accurate GPS locating services, Greg tossed on his coat, scarf and gloves and started out of this flat, returning only to add shoes to his sock-clad feet, something he told his brain to immediately forget or there would be words later.  And none of them would be Happy Holidays…

__________

Looking twice to make certain he was in the correct place, Greg frowned at the façade of the little café, tucked away in a part of London he didn’t normally frequent, but which offered smells so appetizing he might need to change that bit of geographic snobbery.  Since there was nothing going on outside on the pavement, he suspected his objective might be inside, which suited him fine since his intended breakfast was currently absorbing toxic fumes inside his destroyed kitchen appliance and he could do with something to take its place.

      “Oh, Mr. Lestrade, we’ve been expecting you.”

Greg stared at the cheery young woman who had darted from behind the counter the moment he walked through the door and wondered which of the questions that immediately leapt to his mind he should ask first.

      “This way, sir, your table is ready.”

Table?  Yes, the café had tables, but this certainly didn’t seem the sort of place that took reservations.  It looked more the sort of place that you stepped in to have a quick bite while you were out shopping and, if seating wasn’t available, took your bite with you to eat while you strolled and looked at window displays until you’d had your lunch.  But, there _was_ a table available and it was a nice one, near the window, with a little sign perched proudly proclaiming it as ‘Reserved.’

      “Your order will be ready shortly, sir.  Would you like coffee or tea while you’re waiting?”

      “Uhhhh… coffee?”

      “I’ll have that out to you in a moment.”

Why had he said coffee?  Why had he said anything besides ‘Explain yourself!”  No, that was rude, and she certainly didn’t deserve rudeness when she was just doing her job.  Or was she?  Make a mental note that paranoia was settling in, which wasn’t a good sign, and use your police senses to notice that she’s chatting with the other staff as if they know each other and she’s also stopping to share a quick word with that table where the older couple are sitting.  None of that screamed ‘I just got a job here to poison your coffee, drag your body back to my basement lair where I keep embalming equipment so me and your corpse can spend many happy days together until the police drag me off for a professional evaluation while they contemplate whether I’m too insane to prosecute for murder.’  And the coffee here really did smell amazing…

      “Here you are, sir.  Your order is just up, too, so I’ll get that for you now.”

His order.  Which existed, apparently, even though he’d never given it.  But… ok, the coffee tasted as good as it smelled, which was fucking hard to accomplish, so whatever poison was in here had his full permission to kill him because he was going to drink every drop, regardless, and savor them, too.  Along with every bite of that beautiful creation coming his way…

      “Your omelet, Mr. Lestrade.  Please let me know if you need more toast or anything.  I’ll refill your coffee in a moment, too.”

Oh, it _was_ Christmas.  He loved omelets!  Why have eggs alone, when you could have eggs with some lovely cheese and…

_The unbeaten egg envies the cheese._

Ohhhhh… ok.  Ok.  That was a clue.  No, not really, because it gave him no idea what was going on, but it did confirm that something _was_ going on and there was a distinct plan behind it.  This was a thorough stalker.  A thinking stalker.  Which was the worst possible kind.

But, he wasn’t going to forsake his breakfast just to spite the bastard.  If this was going to be his last meal, then he certainly couldn’t ask for better…

__________

      “Finished, sir?”

Greg knew that belching loudly was not an answer the server would appreciate, so he simply dabbed his lips and smiled brightly.

      “Yes, and it was delicious.  Thank you, really.  I was wondering, though…”

      “I’m so happy to hear that, Mr. Lestrade.  Let me clear this away and… here, this is for you.  Have a Happy Christmas, sir!  We hope to see you again, soon.”

Another small box was set on Greg’s table and he was too busy looking at it to return to his affable interrogation of the server, who swiftly cleared his cup, plate and utensils and hustled off to continue working.  This box was similar to the first, but with a different bow, though it was clearly hand-tied, as was the first.  A pulled ribbon and peek inside brought him face to… bill… with another duck.  This one was dressed like a punk rocker and had an electric guitar where the first one had held a whisk.

This was… worrying. Someone had obviously been watching closely enough to know about his buying a duck last night.  Not that he didn’t buy them now and again, but this happening today… yeah, someone saw last night’s purchase and,,, could also have seen the outcome.  That wasn’t good.  He shouldn’t be worried about Mycroft, the bastard, but stalkers could go a bit violent on people they either thought liked or didn’t like their target.

That didn’t feel right, though.  If that was the case, this sort of nonsense would have been happening to Mycroft and, then, the one to feel sorry for would be the stalker, because what would happen when Mycroft or one of his minions caught them would not be pretty.  This felt… funny.  Amusing funny, not weird funny.  But stalkers did do amusing things, at times.  This felt a little… awkward, too, but that didn’t drag it out of stalker territory.  What was keeping him from phoning his team and having the whole lot, with full forensics backup, descend on his quaint café, was that his cop senses simply weren’t tingling.  He didn’t feel like he was being watched and that was something you leaned to trust your instincts on in his job.  Also, he was pretty good at remembering faces and he hadn’t noticed any particular face showing up more than usual in recent days.  Nobody being extra-friendly, either, or trying a little harder to gain his attention.

No, as much as he did and didn’t want to think this was a stalker, that vibe just wasn’t strong enough to warrant action. It could be his team having a laugh, but that didn’t explain the duck business.  Unless it was just a coincidence they’d chosen today to be pranky and silly.  It _was_ his off day and he was working Christmas Eve, Christmas and Boxing Day so many of them could have time with their friends and family.  A little gift, maybe?  For being a not-too dreadful person most of the time and a little especially-useful during this holiday season?  It _was_ possible and, if he was honest, they were good people at heart who might think about him this time of year.  And they certainly knew about his stupid ducks…

Speaking of ducks, this one also had a card…

_The tuneless song sounds loud in the empty soul._

No bloody clue what that meant, but it was as cryptic and baffling as the first, so the pattern was holding.  And there was another set of GPS coordinates…

After trying to pay the bill and being told it had already been taken care of, Greg smiled at the server and made his way to track the new location to which he, apparently, being directed.  If he allowed himself to stay out of ‘I’ve got a stalker’ mindset, this was actually fun.  Certainly more fun than having a boring day in his flat, watching the telly and drinking a few beers, starting earlier than the socially-approved five o’clock starting point because it was his off day, therefore, fuck society and it’s rules.  So, find out what this next bit of business was all about and gather more clues as to the nature of today’s events.  He was an expert with clues, after all, and gathering them had rarely been accompanied by a filling and delicious breakfast so he was already ahead of the game…

__________

A museum.  Ok… the team was still in play as suspects and, now, so were his mates.  They all knew that the cliché about cops being mindless thugs was shite, at least, except for the select bad apples who should only be serving the public by doing time in Her Majesty’s prisons because they were arses who disgraced the police service and the genuinely good people it employed, and also knew he did pay the occasional visit to a museum for an exhibit, to hear a talk or view a film.  An hour or so taking in a bit of culture was certainly not a hardship.

      “Mr. Lestrade, right on schedule.”

He had a schedule?  The woman standing just outside the door, apparently waiting for him, seemed to think so.  Well, there was only so much time one could reasonably expect to linger at the breakfast table, even if one was licking their plate clean, so it wasn’t inconceivable that his arrival time might be a touch predictable.

      “Glad to be helpful.  Let me guess, I have a ticket waiting for me.”

      “Not quite, sir, if you would come with me, I’ll notify Mr. Sharpe that you’re here.”

He also, it seemed, had a Mr. Sharpe.  Ok, there was nothing in society’s already-ignored rules that said his gifts couldn’t have a surname.  A surname that was attached to a younger man he would have anticipated, though why he clung to the mental image of museums being staffed by men and women who were nearly as old as the exhibits they promoted remained a mystery.  It was probably because that’s how they’d seemed when he was a tot being taken on school trips even though they, along with his elderly teacher, were likely younger than he was now.

      “Mr. Lestrade… it is very good to meet you.  I’m Owen Sharpe, curator of the exhibit.”

      “It’s good to meet you, also, Mr. Sharpe.  But, I have to confess I have no idea what exhibit you’re talking about.”

      “So I was informed.  It’s not open to the public yet, second week of January for that, but we’ve got most of the items already and you’re very much in luck that several of the donors are here today for interviews as part of our publicity package.”

      “Good!  Still don’t know what you’re talking about, though.”

      “Oh!  Do pardon me.  This one has me very excited, I must say, so I suppose I’m babbling a bit.  It’s the History of Modern British Rock, from early days until the 80’s or so.  The pre-opening, word-of-mouth chatter is extremely positive and ticket sales are… well, if here’s a ticket to be had now, I’d be surprised.  In any case, I’ve been asked to extend to you the opportunity to view what we have collected so far, instruments, original lyrics and album art, photographs, and a great deal more.  Shall we begin?”

Begin?  His brain wasn’t working, how could they begin!  He’d been desperate to see this, but he found out about it late and this bastard was right about tickets selling as fast as a kid snatching sweets from the jar when his mum wasn’t looking.  It was a very limited run, too, and he’d decided that, with his notoriously bad luck, trying to schedule time off on one of the few remaining tickets-available days would likely summon a demon to deliver him an unexpected case, a bout of intestinal flu and a tax audit as penalty for imprudent thinking.

      “Y… yes.  I’d love to start.”

      “Then do follow me.”

Greg hoped he wasn’t scaring other patrons by smiling so hard, but this was stupendous!  It didn’t narrow down who was behind it all, because his team could have strong-armed this chap or one like him into giving their old boss a special treat as repayment for all the times they’d been called out for this or that theft or break-in and didn’t leak anything to the newspapers about it.   One of his mates could have called in a favor or two, too, since they weren’t entirely rabble and had a friend here or there in moderately-high places.  _Or_ they had a parent or spouse who did, which was good enough.  Right now, though, he wasn’t going to give it a second thought, because he wanted all of his brain empty and ready to soak up all this wonder.  Maybe he’d leave enough brain in use to keep him walking, seeing and breathing, though.  Hard to appreciate the wonder when you’re dead on the floor and the custodian is sweeping you out with the rest of the rubbish…

__________

      “That… that was amazing.”

No, amazing was actually too weak a word for it.  He had the full behind-the-scenes tour, got to actually handle a few things, have his questions answered by someone who knew what they were talking about and… meet some of the people he’d terrorized his parents with when he played their music at full-volume in their fairly small house.  On his phone, right now, were photos of him and a score of people he’d admired since his youth, which was funny since a lot of them were famous for being staunchly anti-cop back in the day.  It was indescribable…

      “I am so happy you enjoyed yourself, Mr. Lestrade.  It was a delight to give you small peek at what we have to offer.”

Small peek… he’d been here for nearly three hours!

      “It was an experience I’ll never forget.  I’d like to thank the person who…”

      “Dear me, I forgot your catalog.  We’ll have these for sale in the gift shop when the exhibit opens, but yours has been taken care of already.  Just a moment.”

Another one with tight lips.  Great.  No… well, yes… it _was_ great.  A little secret to make the fun that much funner.  Which isn’t a word, brain, but you’re forgiven because you did a great job committing all of that treasure to memory.  Besides, there would be a phone call or text or something today or tomorrow to see how he’d enjoyed his day and that would let him know who to thank for all of this.  No need to pester this poor fellow when there wasn’t a need.  Besides… ok, really?  He was bringing one of those thick, glossy catalogs and a box.  A suspiciously bow-wearing box…

      “For you, sir, as is this.  Now, if you will excuse me, no rest for the weary, I’m afraid.”

      “Of course!  Yes, and thank you.  It’s been a tremendous day.”

With a smile, the curator took his leave and Greg used a corner of the information desk to set down his catalog and open his box.  It was a duck and, frankly, he’d have been disappointed if it wasn’t.  This one was giving him a good laugh, though, because it was certainly a jaunty fellow, with a large glass of beer riding on its back.

_The thirsty man wants more than foam._

That was true.  That was very true, and he’d suffered enough poorly-drawn pints to be an expert on the topic.  Could this new coordinate set be a friendly pub?  Well, no time like the present to find out…

__________

What’s better than a quick stop at a friendly pub?  A longer stop at a friendly brewery.  Complete with tour and samples and an excellent lunch in the taproom.  Since no duck box had arrived at his table yet, there should be time for a full pint or two of this excellent lager to accompany the last few bites of his meal and then… who knows!

      “Excuse me, ma’am.  Could I get a pint of…”

      “I’m so sorry, Mr. Lestrade, but I can’t do that.”

      “Oh?  Reason?  If it’s the cost, I’ll pay that bit myself and…”

      “No sir, it’s not that, not at all.  Actually, I don’t know why, but I was told you might ask, and I was just to say I couldn’t and if that _did_ happen before you had fully finished your lunch, I was to… wait a moment, will you?”

So… somebody wanted him to keep a clear head.  Or maybe there was more booze on the menu today and ending the day pissed out of his skull wasn’t the plan.  Either way, come to daddy, little bow-topped box…

      “This is for you, sir.  Take you time, though, and if you’d like more chips or are ready for something sweet, just let me know.”

      “I’m fine for chips, but…”

      “Bring the pudding menu?”

      “Thanks.”

Might as well do this properly.  What new adventure are you sending me on after my cake or pie or whatever, little duck?  Ooh… now, this is understandable, at least.  Father Christmas, are you?  You look plump enough for the role and your outfit doesn’t leave much doubt, regardless.  I wonder what you mean, though.  A ride in a sleigh, maybe?  That would be strange, but potentially fun.  Maybe something going on in a park.  Roasted chestnuts and hot chocolate provided?  Even with this lunch, I promise I’ll have room for all of it and sing carols if that’s called for, too.  Never let it be said that Greg Lestrade wasn’t one to spurn the holiday spirit when it was offering itself up with such eagerness…

__________

This wasn’t a park.  He wasn’t sure _what_ it was besides a fairly old, but well-maintained building in a fairly non-descript area that didn’t offer much to the tourists but housed a large number of people who didn’t have time or tolerance for tourists in any case.  They were too busy with trying to keep food on the table and a roof over their family’s heads.  But, this _was_ the place, there was no doubt about it, so onward and upward…

      “Hello?”

There wasn’t a person immediately there to greet him outside or when he peeked inside and finally walked into the large, desk-filled space, but a young man came darting out from a small office at the sound of his voice and genuinely looked delighted to see him.

      “Mr. Lestrade!  Good to meet you, sir.  Really, this is a great help for us.  We’re always shorthanded, but at this time of year… can’t blame anyone for taking a little extra time to spend with their families at Christmas, now can you?”

      “No… no, you can’t…”

No idea what’s happening, but the fellow seems happy, so going along with it like this was a career path chose at birth.

      “… so, I’m glad I can lend a hand.”

      “Very gracious of you, sir.  Well, let’s get you sorted and we can make a start.”

Greg made what he hoped was a ‘Hurray!’ gesture and followed the younger man towards the back of what seemed to be a normally-busy business, when it wasn’t on the cusp of Christmas.  Whatever this was all about, if there was a need, he _was_ happy to help.  It was why he joined the police in the first place, and the desire to help people in need had never faded.  He might do it differently now than when he was a constable, but he _did_ help, even if was only to bring a family peace by seeing a murderer brought to justice.  This little experience didn’t look to be a tour or tasty meal, but he already suspected he’d enjoy the hell out of it…

__________

      “I can’t say how much we appreciate this Mr. Lestrade.  And the children did, too.  I haven’t seen some of them smile… ever… and their faces were just glowing when they saw you.  You brought a lot of kids a great deal of happiness and that’s a gift they’ll treasure more than you can ever know.”

Greg had already fought getting misty-eyed a few times this afternoon and he fought it again now, just as valiantly.  He’d laughed donning the Father Christmas gear and seeing if his back could manage the first of the sacks of toys he was to deliver, but that laughter had changed into something different when they paid their first stop at a shelter and he saw the utter disbelief on the faces of the children he was there to visit.  Women, children and families desperately in need and those children had certainly believed Father Christmas would forsake them as the rest of the world had done, but… they were proved wrong.  Maybe it was just a few shared words, a simple gift and small sack of sweets, but he could see in their eyes what it meant to them that Father Christmas was there, showing them kindness, and if he didn’t see one single thing for himself for the rest of his Christmases, the hopeful smiles of the children met today would be more than enough gift to last a lifetime.

      “It was my pleasure, honestly, I’m thrilled I could step in and help.  You do this every year?”

      “Oh yes.   We do what we can, year-round, but at this time of year, when the world is full of song and love, but it doesn’t seem to want to set foot in certain places or visit certain people… it’s brutally hard, especially on the children.”

      “Here…”

Greg reached into his pocket for his wallet and drew out his card.

      “Put me on your list.  You need a Father Christmas or just a set of hands to help when needed, you phone and if I can’t do it, I can find a willing volunteer to step in.  We deal with a lot of ugliness in our line of work and it… it helps us, too, when we can do something more than make an arrest and hope the courts do the right thing.”

      “I will, sir!  Thank you… oh!  Before I forget…”

      “Got a box for me, possibly?”

      “No.  Am I supposed to?”

What?  No box?  That means no duck.  Which is a pattern change.  Could that mean… the day was coming to an end?

      “Not necessarily.  What do you have, then?”

      “This…”

Rummaging in his pocket, Greg’s latest benefactor finally drew out a card which, although it was no longer crisp and perfect, was instantly recognizable.

      “Here.  I hope you understand it, because I certainly can’t offer an explanation.”

_The duck quacks thrice at midnight._

And more coordinates.  Ok.. getting the clear feeling the end of the line was near.

      “I understand it well enough and it’s expected, so… yes.  Thanks for this.  You won’t forget to phone if you need volunteers, right?”

      “Oh no, I never forget an offer of time and effort.  Happy Christmas to you, Mr. Lestrade.  And a wonderful New Year, too.”

Greg offered his own farewell, shook hands and waited until he was outside to take out his mobile and start what he felt certain was the final stop of the day.  Maybe that’s where he’d meet who set all this in motion.  It wasn’t late, but his team _could_ have gotten people to cover for a few hours while they enjoyed a drink or two, completely unbeknownst to their immediate supervisor, who would be _him_ , or for his mates to have finished the work day and be looking for a night out before family holiday obligations took over every bit of free time they had.  No matter what happened… or didn’t… this was certainly a day he’d never forget and the perfect tonic to lift his spirits after last night’s catastrophic disaster.  He had no idea what he’d done to earn the generosity of the universe, since it’d never been particularly generous to him before, but no looking a gift horse… or a gift duck… in the mouth.  It was in no manner charitable, especially at Christmas…

__________

A pub.  That didn’t eliminate either of the most likely culprits for today’s adventures, since a healthy appreciation for drink was a unifying feature of most everyone he knew.  Given there wasn’t a horde of elves racing out to shower him with fake snow or anything, he was probably meant to go inside and…

_Quack Quack Quack_

      “What the fuck?”

Greg spun around and looked about for what sounded exactly like one of those duck calls you saw on the telly when they were trying to get the little winged buggers out in the open for the viewing public to see.

      “I… I do apologize that it is not midnight, as promised, but I assumed you would not appreciate that late an evening, given you must return to work tomorrow morning.”

      “M… Mr. Holmes?”

Ok, that was dumb, since it obviously _was_ Mr. Mycroft Holmes stepping out of the shadows, with exactly the sort of duck call he’d been imagining in one hand and…

      “Is that a plastic duck?”

… a plastic duck in the other.

      “It is!  And one I hope you will provide a home with the rest of its flock.”

Nothing on Earth, not even the highly unique sight of a Mycroft Holmes with lightly-trembling hands, could have stopped Greg moving closer because he’d never seen a duckie like this one before.  Except he had.  In the mirror.

      “It’s me!  Has the same old man’s hair and wears what I typically wear and… his little warrant card has my name on it!  How… how did you…”

      “There are benefits to knowing a variety of individuals in a diversity of industries.”

As well as having a legion of graphic designers on hand who generally produce fake documents, false publications and other tools of the trade, but that could stay his secret.

      “You had this made?   For me?  When did… oh.  You saw what I threw away last night, didn’t you?”

The downcast look in Mycroft’s eyes was all the answer Greg needed, but now that he was leaping back to last night’s debacle, he might as well leap in with both feet.

      “That was a bit nosy of you, you know.”

      “Perhaps.  However… I was so utterly ashamed of myself that nosiness was really the least of my concerns.”

That confession hit Greg like a physical punch in the chest.  He never thought he’d hear words like that from Mycroft Holmes for any reason or for any situation.

      “Sir… I…”

      “Mycroft, please.  I feel it is more than your due.  And to provide full disclosure, for that is also your due, I am unconditionally sorry for the words I said to you.  I was confused by matters, already irritated by the thought of Sherlock desecrating yet another hoped-for quiet night at home and… and I always find myself in a quandary about how to properly communicate with you about anything other than my brother’s repeated desecrations of both my time and the patience of this city and its denizens.  I have not a scintilla of your ability to… chat.  To enjoy a pleasant moment of conversation with no purpose other than that it would be a pleasant interlude in the day.  And I _have_ wanted that, Detective Inspector.  Wanted simply to share time conversing and learning more about the man you are, for I… I have found that man interesting, despite the rarity of our meeting for any purpose other than Sherlock’s immediate chaos.  You are not on my holiday gift list because I have never believed myself worthy of that particular honor.  One bestows gifts to those with whom one shares a bond and I have taken no steps to achieve that, including letting it be known that such a thing would be welcome should you be first to extend a hand.  Last night, I disgraced myself and clearly caused you pain, something that grieves me terribly.  I offer no excuses and can only say with perfect honesty that the text and tone of my words were the product of a frustration with a scenario my skillset could not immediately manage and… well, you know the result.  I hoped to provide some degree of repayment for my actions in a manner that might be meaningful to you.”

Mycroft extended his arm so the duck moved closer to Greg, very much like someone pushing a bouquet of flowers closer to the intended recipient after asking them out on a first date and more than half expecting that they’d say no, then mustered a smile that he hoped was sufficiently neutral, but sincere, that Greg took no meaning from it beyond a punctuation of his rather florid speech.

      “You did all this today, to apologize?”

      “That and to provide you a holiday experience I felt you would enjoy.  You do much, Gregory, both for my brother and for London, itself, and I know well what little reward you see for it.”

Greg rocked on his heels for a minute, giving himself a chance to think and process what Mycroft had said.  In truth, he mostly expected to hear nothing from the man until he was needed for some Sherlock-related event and then it would be as if _nothing_ had passed between them.  A cruel part of his mind said it was because he was so far beneath Mycroft’s concern that the incident wouldn’t remain in his mind for longer than it took to walk back to his car.  That, apparently, wasn’t true.  It couldn’t have been easy for Mycroft to plan all of this.  Execute it, yes, but plan?  Everything he knew about the elder Holmes, and supported by Mycroft’s own words tonight, was that planning a fantastic day for someone, wholly fantastic and wholly for them and them alone, would be staggeringly difficult.  True, he likely could plan something that _anyone_ would find incredible and, true, he could probably plan something so utterly manipulative that he could get a person to agree to pretty much whatever he asked, but… for no purpose than pure, simple fun?  If Mycroft had seen a wink of sleep last night, he’d be terribly surprised…

      “Then, I’ll happily accept your apology and thank you, sincerely, for doing this for me.  It’s been the best day I’ve had in… I can’t remember how long it’s been since I had such a fun… and rewarding… day.”

Taking the duck from Mycroft’s hand, and grinning widely now that he could see the details more closely, Greg almost missed the quick flash of both relief and happiness in Mycroft’s eyes. There was a great deal to Mr. Holmes he had yet to discover, it seemed.  And speaking of discovering…

      “Do you have any idea who sent me that gift or left you that message?”

      “I… have a suspicion and feel confident that I will have confirmation either way tomorrow…

Because her Ladyship will be at her desk not a minute past her standard arrival time, no matter how late the ‘owl’ outside her bedroom window kept her awake tonight with its infernal hooting.  It was quite astonishing what a creative engineer could concoct on very short notice to generate a neighbor-sparing monodirectional audio signal that easily ran a full night without requiring a fresh battery.

      “… until then, however… might I invite you for a cocktail?  I anticipated you might desire such a thing as a coda for your day and… this is an agreeable location for any manner of alcoholic potables.”

That was not the affable, casual invitation he had practiced!  That was something his grandfather might offer to one of his like-minded, nose-in-a-book academic colleagues.  And they were all currently deceased, which made it all the drearier.

      “I’d love a drink, thanks!”

Grandpapa was a more socially-talented man than he’d remembered, it seemed, even in the afterlife.

      “Excellent.  And, truly, Detective Inspector…”

      “Greg.  It’s only fair.”

      “Thank you, Gregory… I am honored.  And, I simply wished to proffer my thanks for allowing me the opportunity to speak plainly on this matter and granting me the continued honor of your acquaintance.”

Greg Lestrade was a man who had risen through the police ranks for a lot of reasons, one of which was that he was always someone who could be counted on to make the hard choices.  Take the proverbial bull by the horns and do what had to be done.  At this moment, he was feeling a powerful urge to make that hard choice, do the right thing and if he ran away from that, it was going to haunt him the way regrets always did.  At his age, he already had enough regrets and this one he could avoid with a tiny bit of courage…

      “Maybe… we can work on improving the status from acquaintance to… something other than acquaintance which is still acquaintance-like but better in all sorts of ways that are… nice?”

What did that even mean?  Mycroft should hit him over the head with his brolly to try and dislodge some verbal intelligence from this malfunctioning brain.

      “Oh… I… I find that a highly acceptable suggestion.”

      “You do?”

And you understood it?

      “I do.  It aligns very well with my own thoughts.  Perhaps we can… compare notes, as they say, over our drinks?”

The move to plural.  Drink becomes drinks.  Mycroft was on his wavelength or, at minimum, had an internal radio that picked up signals from the Blatherverse and that was good enough.

      “The perfect thing!  I have to say… for what I expected to be a fairly dull Christmas, this is turning into something special.”

      “A special man deserves a special day, do you not think?”

It _was_ a special day.  A day that kept on giving.  A contrite Mycroft Holmes and now one flushing so brightly there could be a power disruption and he could still see his new duck as clear as day from the glow on Mycroft’s cheeks.  Special man… you don’t blush like that unless you have a few layers added onto that ‘special’ that go a bit… intriguing.  Oh, Christmas was being very, very good to one bad little boy named Greg Lestrade.

      “I _do_ think, which is why I’m privileged to spend tonight with a special man, myself.”

It shouldn’t be possible for you to glow more brightly, Mr. Holmes, but you’re doing a very good job of it, nonetheless.

      “I… oh…that is… uhh… thank you.”

      “You’re welcome!  Now, let’s move this conversation inside.  Chase away the cold and reward ourselves for making it another year without having our naked photos posted in the tabloids, with appropriate pixilation, of course, or waking up in Scotland just as naked, without a wallet and ‘you’re a wanker’ written in pen on our forearms.”

      “Gregory… that latter scenario was provided with a suspicious level of detail.”

      “Was it?”

      “Yes.  Is there something you wish to confess?”

      “Ummm… not without a few drinks in me, no.”

Nothing about this day was predictable, however, having Mycroft Holmes plant his palms and push him bodily towards the pub was the most unpredictable thing of all.  But, it did allow him to get a good feel for how long and strong were Mycroft’s fingers.  The man certainly had formidable hands for acts of physical contact.  And not today, but someday, he had a suspicion he’d learn exactly how many acts of physical contact those hands could perform… though, there was one question still lingering in his mind…

      “Mycroft, did you blow up my microwave?”

      “A new one was delivered today and the… victim… was removed and given decent burial.”

      “I have to admire your creativity, even if it goes a bit violent on my electronics.”

      “Thank you, Gregory.  For New Year’s Eve… how attached are you to your television?”

      “Not attached enough to turn down another adventure.  You’ll join me on that one, though, right?”

      “But, of course!  Who better to carry your drone and supply of minor explosives?”

      “We’re going to bomb your brother, aren’t we?”

      “Patience, Gregory.  Good things come to those who wait.”

      “That’s a yes.”

      “I give no confession. But do be certain you have dark clothing and a pair of binoculars standing ready for my call...”


End file.
